The moon was high in the heavens now, lighting up almost with brilliancy the walls of Caiaphas's house and the grass around their feet. The garden was laid out in Roman fashion, with paths and labyrinths and stiffly cut yews; the leaves of the dark fig trees glistened in the moonlight, while the cedars rose like ghosts from the dark corners, their weird branches spreading out from them like great curtains of velvet; and everywhere was that deep night silence that raises thoughts of death—except far away in the town quarters of the city, where distant music floated upwards and wild dogs barked.
The hour, the strange silence, the moonlight, the weird beauty of the haughty woman in her new appealing meekness, all these were not without effect on Lazarus's mystic temperament. The man who loved things beautiful around him could not but appreciate the artistic poetry of the situation, or fail to admire the unusual beauty of the daughter of Caiaphas.
As he pushed open the iron gate of the garden let into the wall, she turned her head towards him. "I would speak with thee, Lazarus," she said, a faint touch of the domineering, despotic spirit returning; it was the voice of one who brooked no opposition.
"The hour is late, and my sisters will be waiting for me; maybe too, the Lord hath returned with them. If thou art safe within these walls, noble lady, I would return."
Rebekah winced at his words, but, in her frenzied love, there was no room for pride. Now Lazarus must be caught, if caught he could be by deepest
